Trying to solve problems like Maria

I take a bus to the subway every morning (although not anymore – move is in 3 days, weeeee). It’s about a 2-block walk from the end of the bus line to the subway. Those two blocks though? They are lined with the back-entrances to a bunch of restaurants – where trash is placed and then leaks, where the quaintly cobbled sidewalk retains the liquid and then splashes when you walk on the stones, getting all up in your flip flops and reminding you of fish markets and spoiled milk for the rest of the day. In short, the longest two blocks of my day.

On my first few trips to New York, ever, I was always visiting people and it was always scary – in high school my friend Matt was like “Don’t make eye contact with anyone on the subway,” so that was the New York I knew. I college, we would visit Kelly at Fordham and holy crap, for student housing in New York City, the apartments that Fordham freshmen get are insane and bigger than any apartment I’ve ever lived in. But my point is, I remember Becky wiped her face with some kind of astringent one night in Kelly’s place and we all marveled at the blackness of the cotton ball. New York! One filthy place where you can’t look anyone in the eye. (Becky still tends to bring up the astringent thing. It’s been 12 years.) Also, Kelly’s roommate had an insane amount of lingerie for an 18-year-old and we have a whole gallery of photos from when Becky tried it all on. It was mostly Blanche DuBois-chic, like satin robes trimmed in fur. That has nothing to do with anything, I’m just having a fond memory because we took about 3 rolls of film that night and then each ate a pint of Ben & Jerry’s without regret and watched The Crow. Man, I miss the 90’s.

Those first few trips to New York were the reason I wanted to move here, the city was still mysterious and, yes, like the casts from every New York TV-show always say, the city is a character in itself. While we were standing in the 59th street subway station, we all started singing “Feelin’ Groovy” (you’d be hard pressed to find anyone in my group of high school friends who didn’t keep Simon and Garfunkel in the tape deck of their car). When we emerged out of Port Authority in Times Square, there was an old shoe store called Father & Son and again, we all started singing what I now think of as a real downer of a song, Cat Stevens’ “Father and Son” (because if there was one tape even more popular than S&G, it was the self-mixed Cat Stevens “Best-of” tapes Becky would copy for us). Regardless of how sad “Father and Son” the song seems now (I mean seriously, it’s a good song but I feel like the 70’s singer-songwriter theme of parental regret need not have produced so many singles, amiright “Cat’s in the Cradle” lovers?), we were all on the same page and it was all really exciting. We made pilgrimages to the Dakota and Strawberry Field and if this post is veering into some kind of classic-rock blog of devotion, don’t worry, it’s unintentional and I’m trying to reel it in. We did wait in line for rush tickets to see Rent, so that should even the score.

I have to remember that all of that is why I moved to the city – everything was a reference, a scene from a movie or a line from a song. That’s what I wanted my world to be, it’s even why I tried babka (cinnamon and chocolate), because I wanted to try it after seeing Seinfeld. (However, still not a fan of black and white cookies. ) After this weekend I don’t have to deal with the rotten-smelling two blocks anymore, and all will be right with my mythical city once more. I’ll live in a land where Cosby’s roamed and Cher dated Nicolas Cage and got a makeover. As with every move, it will be magic. Until the next time I have to deal with subway delays, moldy groceries and bean-eating hoboes.*

Sisterhood of the traveling pantsuits! Are there any other democrats out there rethinking their primary vote for Obama besides me?

(Just kidding, I didn’t vote in the primary this year. Because I was vacationing in San Francisco on Super Tuesday – but I’m pretty sure every San Franciscan cast a vote I’m on board with, what with our shared values and all.)

But seriously, go Hillary with your puns.

Still posting over at Scandalist (until the end of next week!), plus I got a Mac at work, and I’ll be moving to a more desirable neighborhood in 5 days, so things are looking up. (What constitutes “more desirable” in my mind? I think about if I were to do an apartment swap with some other-city dwelling vacationer, would I feel guilty telling them “Yeah, I totally live in a great part of Brooklyn”? If I were to have that hypothetical conversation today, I would feel very bad – red-hot on the Guilt-o-Tron 3000 (wink!). What with the cabbie who got his eye shot out 5 blocks from my house and the train to nowhere as the closest public transportation. But now, I’ll really be able to wholeheartedly say “I live where Brooklyn rich people live – Brooklyn people who have the option NOT to live in Brooklyn but choose not to take it! Even though I live in a shoebox (but you should see the bathroom – it’s newly renovated)!” But I actually don’t ever plan to use those house-swap websites, so this is purely just an example of what I might say if I did.)

Anyone who’s seen Glory can attest to the importance of Matthew Broderick Robert Gould Shaw, leader of the first African American Army regiment. But did you know that he also had an obsession with movie theater grub? Watch this History Channel special about this Union Colonel’s devotion to snacks in Popcorn Colonel. (Inspired by Sally’s post…)

Next season on ITV4, Britain’s “experimental” channel, we learn all about small peanut farmer Nigel Pennywhistle, who does everything from planting his crop to, what he considers the most important part of his job, delivering it. Oh the escapades he has when he drives ’round the shire dropping off his wares and meeting new people. This fall, Nigel’s Driving Me Nuts.

My love for Project Runway grew exponentially last night with the Drag Queen Challenge. Secretly I do wish I was a drag queen because they’re sassy quip-bots, never at a loss for just the right thing to say, and saying it in style no less. But really? I wish I was a drag queen because I would have a pun for a name. Sigh. If only. I’m not sure who my fave was last night – Hedda Lettuce is sorta old news in New York, but I was unfamiliar with Annida Greenkard, Sharon Needles and okay, this one probably is my fave, Farrah Moans – hello! Genius!

I love this show.

I did find this Drag Queen Name Generator though (I am but a bland, unpunny “Creme BruLay”, let me know if you generate a punnier name).

It occurred to me mayyybe 5 minutes ago that a website devoted to all-inclusive resort-goers would be sandalist.com and not scandalist. Because you know, Scandals is a nudie bar and Sandals is the beach place. Oops.

Todays posts (2 posts about The Hills and 1 about the Jonas Brothers. Who? What? I’m too old for this):

I got a temporary gig writing about celebrities over at scandalist.com, which is part of the VH1 family (aww, when you’re at scandalist, you’re family). My pal Kate works there and is getting married so, while hers are big, celebrity-scathing shoes to fill, I’m going to help post at the site while she’s off honeymooning. I’m hoping to sneak in puns as much as possible, but I’m sure their editors have a keen eye for that kind of stuff and will catch me.

In college, a bunch of us road tripped to New Orleans and along the way we marveled at the wonderfully terrible, amazing signs in front of churches (most of the ginormous neon crosses and super-religious signage were also wonderfully juxtaposed right next to sex toy shop billboards because I guess the Bible belt is easily loosened). Signs like “For all you do, His blood’s for you” and other inappropriate, delightful stuff abounded mostly between Memphis and New Orleans. It’s not often that you find such signs in New York City, but on my way to copywriting class a couple weeks ago I was struck by this one. Mostly because I wish I thought of it first. Brav-o, original sin punner. Brav. O.